


we call everything on the ice 'love'

by leov66



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Skating, Developing Friendships, Drinking, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Mentions of Anxiety, Mutual Pining, implied child neglect
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-21
Updated: 2018-12-29
Packaged: 2019-02-05 05:52:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12788424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leov66/pseuds/leov66
Summary: “Taking the ice, Julien Enjolras, representing France."in 2008, his career in the senior division begins.(a Les Mis figure skating au which follows Enjolras through the highs and lows of being a professional skater.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this is honestly one of my biggest projects and i'm so excited about it ahhh!!! this is a figure skating au, not a yuri on ice au! 
> 
> my tumblr is [@euphra-sie](https://euphra-sie.tumblr.com), hit me up and let me know what you thought!
> 
> also, the update schedule will be uhh messy, so bear with me!

“Taking the ice, Julien Enjolras, representing France."

 

The crowd's screams are almost deafening, but he doesn't mind. He hasn't minded that in almost ten years. They’re almost like a constant low sound inside his head, calming and filling him with that nervous energy at the same time.

 

“Enjolras is a five-time Grand Prix champion, an Olympic two-time bronze and gold medallist. He's broken both of James Combeferre's world records at this year's PyeongChang Olympics."

 

There is nothing particularly eye-catching in his costume this time, the only exception being the golden ring on his finger. It reflects the lights in the most beautiful way, and after kissing it for the final time, he smiles to himself. Despite so many months that have passed already, he still finds it hard to believe that all of this is real.

 

“This year's Grand Prix golden medallist has announced yesterday at the press conference that this has been his last season."

 

The piece he's chosen - _they've chosen_ \- isn't that spectacular or written especially for him. It’s a memory nevertheless, a reminder of golden days. He’s the only one who can make it his own. The first notes begin and he's calmer than ever as if it was just him and the ice. Nothing can compare to this feeling.

 

It's the choreography that lays him bare in front of the audience and it's the choreography that tugs at their hearts and makes them yearn for something only his performance can deliver.

 

“His retirement ends the most spectacular chapter in men’s figure skating history yet. Enjolras leaves behind a legendary legacy, one that he earned amongst the best of his times, and paves the road for another, perhaps even greater, generation.”

 

He's always been told that his skating tells a story and a story he tells for the final time.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this is where the story begins! consider this the _actual_ first chapter.

Falling on the ice is one of his first memories. He's five and struggling to maintain any sort of balance, let alone look as graceful as his mother. She’s beautiful, he realizes once again, her dark skin against the white rink and her blue eyes sparkling with excitement. Her hand is in his father's, his usually stern expression softened by the adoration in his eyes. They look happy like that, younger, and it’s easy to pretend that moments like this could last forever.

 

One day, a little boy falls in love with skating. He changes, but the love never does.

 

He's ten and that’s when everything starts getting strenuous. There's a coach, too rude and too harsh on him, but it doesn’t matter. His parents are proud of him and so he's proud of himself, too. As proud as a tired ten-year-old could possibly be. His friends at school laugh at him sometimes, but all he does is hold his head high and remind himself he's going to be the best and the whole of France is going to watch him one day. The lights will shine on him and only him and then, it’ll all be worth it. He lives off that hope for years, unaware of how bittersweet it would feel once a dream comes true. Before any of that, however, there's practice every day and ballet and homework and insomnia and worries that are too big for him. There's always something to be done and everything is always weary.

 

At the age of thirteen, he begins winning. The medals are pretty and the money is even prettier because they can get him a better coach and skates that aren't too small, maybe? His feet bleed and everything hurts but that’s good, he tells himself, that means he’s working hard. His parents decide that he should be homeschooled and he doesn't protest. Why would he? The kids don't like him, anyway. They allow him to quit ballet, and he’s thankful because he’s never liked it. Everything about it makes him feel bad, like he’s not alright in his own body, because it never works like it should. 

 

He's also thirteen when his father ends up in the hospital, pale and weak. Kidney failure, someone says, and he wishes he could remember anything more about it, but he skipped that chapter in his bio book to practice quads he’s not even allowed to do yet. The hospital makes his head spin and his stomach turn, it’s all too cold and sterile and weird. They need money, he overhears, and that he can do. He wins and wins and wins and the money is never enough. It’s awful and disheartening and it makes him cry when he’s home alone, which is most of the time now. At some point, he considers resigning altogether, but his mother screams at him and calls him ungrateful for all their sacrifices. He doesn't ever mention it again, too afraid to see this other side of her that’s coming undone for him ever since his father went to the hospital. 

 

His first kiss is stolen by the new boy at the rink, all curly hair and wandering hands. They're both sixteen and his parents don't know. It’s sloppy and shy, but what matters is that it makes him feel good and leaves him wanting more. He skates through the dizziness from the kisses and through the humiliation and heartbreak. They argue, the boy gets a girlfriend and quits skating after some time, too bored and annoyed or so he says. He barely thinks about it when he keeps winning, one medal after another because he has no other choice. His father slowly gets better, and for a while, his mother is happy. He doesn’t forget those lonely nights, though, those times she spat out all her worries and guilt on him as if he wasn’t just a scared boy, just as helpless as her. Doesn’t forget the way she makes a scene every time there’s someone different on the TV, someone like him, someone she cannot bear to listen to because it’s just so wrong, isn’t it, and he nods along, swallowing the tight lump in his throat. He’s everything his mother wants him to be, perfect, no dumb questions, no irritating girlfriends to bring home yet, first win Olympic gold, skating is more important than a fleeting crush. She knows everything about this, knows the bitterness, her parents’ nagging to quit in fear she’d lose a partner if she dared make her name known in sports, the burning need to make her own dreams come true through her child. He shouldn’t hate her for this, and he doesn’t, but sometimes he wishes he was born in a different family, far away from everything that’s become his life so long ago.

 

At seventeen, he qualifies for the Junior Grand Prix final. He gets bronze and his mother who looked prouder than anybody during the ceremony points out every single one of his failures when the doors of their hotel room close (they share a room, because what on earth would he hide from her and _I’m not spending twice the amount of money, you ungrateful brat_ ).

  

A plan begins to form in his head, and he gets it done one thing after another, sending e-mails, researching scholarships and the ISU's brochures and boring his coach with countless questions. He doesn’t tell his parents anything and for a while, he feels like he’s the main lead in an action movie, but a good one, with lots of mystery and a happy ending. He works and works and works, catching up on schoolwork (it’s not like he’s ever been lazy, his mother would never allow that, but he knows the best grades aren’t enough. Sleep becomes a rarity, his mental state is worse than ever, his essays don’t even make sense anymore. He faints at the rink and wakes up at the hospital, severely dehydrated or whatever, _twice_. It doesn’t matter, though, because it’s the price he pays for the letter from Detroit. He’s been accepted, he realizes, he’s going away. 

 

 

He’s eighteen when he graduates along with his peers, or rather would-have-been peers because he hasn’t had any since fourth grade. It doesn’t disturb him because he gets his diploma, he smiles for a photo, his Poli Sci teacher says she’s proud of him (he’ll never forget Lamarque’s kindness, her willingness to inspire him, the hours they spent discussing his future) and it’s enough. His mother looks proud, too, and he knows his father really is proud. They get along well better now, perhaps it was the impending end in the form of his departure to the States that’s brought them closer together. 

 

 

_I’m everything you ever asked me to be_ , he wants to scream at her, _what more could I possibly do_ , but he knows exactly what he could do. Win the Grand Prix Final, the Worlds, the Euros, the Olympics, everything there is to win. Otherwise, he’s nothing to her.

 

The airport is a bad and a good memory all the same when he runs through the hall with his suitcase rolling behind him. He almost misses the departure and it’s one of the most terrifying moments of his life. His parents aren’t there, they’ve said their goodbyes the evening before. 

 

France slowly becomes a small bunch of dots under exhausted eyes and he falls asleep to the sight of his homeland fading into his memory.


	3. Chapter 3

At his new rink, he meets his future best friends. Miquel Courfeyrac, two years older than him, always gesticulates and speaks with a mix of Brazillian Portuguese and French when he's excited. He introduces Enjolras to everyone, helps him with assignments (he majors in Political Science, too) and makes the best coffee in the world. He's the older brother-slash-best-friend Enjolras never knew he could have.

 

James Combeferre, on the other hand, is always calm and collected, but what initially came off as rudeness turned out to be loyalty and support when the first moments of awkwardness were long gone. Their friendship is one of the things Enjolras values the most in his life, stable no matter what, keeping him grounded. (There’s still a hint of a British accent even though he's spent so much time in America and it makes all the boys and girls at the rink swoon.) He's everything Enjolras aspires to be as a skater – talented, dedicated and humble.

 

They end up being brothers in all but blood, on and off the ice, always circling around each other, somehow bound together. Courfeyrac improves his confidence, shows him he doesn't owe anybody anything, teaches him self-worth and selflessness. Combeferre talks to him about things he never even considered, facts and mysteries alike, always curious about his opinion and willing to shape his point of view.

 

In December that year, there's a bronze medal around his neck. The pressure he’s always lived with, his mother’s scornful looks, the sacrifices he’s had to make, it all makes sense now.

 

_The whole of France is going to watch him one day._

 

He looks up and sees both of his friends. There are tears in his eyes and they're all hugging on the official photo. He frames it when he gets back to the flat he shares with Courfeyrac.

 

One day, he runs into Grantaire. He's on his third coffee after an all-nighter and hears ten colours science hasn’t described yet.

 

“Jesus Christ, you look like you're fucking dead- _wait_ , you're the skater, aren't you?"

 

That's a surprise since usually no one even recognizes him on campus. Especially not handsome strangers with messy, dark curls _and clear, grey eyes and_ -

 

“Yes, I- yes, that's me. I'm sorry, I usually don't run into people like that."

 

“Beauty and grace on the ice, a mess off the ice?”  
  
  
Enjolras stares at him in equal parts confusion and embarassment.

 

“Just kidding, your posture could use some improvement, same thing about the pirouette sequence from the last GPF."

 

“Pardon me, _who the fuck_ are you to know these sort of things? I’ve never seen you at the ring.”

 

“That’s ’cause I’m not a skater. You can call me R. I'm a dance major, been a ballet dancer for fifteen years, honey."

 

_The fucking nerve..._

 

Enjolras is obviously smitten on spot.

 

“There's a dance studio across the street, right by that hipster café you and your friends like. I either practice or volunteer there most of the time, so you can come by if you're interested in, you know, not looking like the Hunchback of Notre Dame."

 

It takes him a month of wounded pride to finally decide to come. It's one of the best decisions of his life, although the bickering sessions with Grantaire really get to him sometimes. He doesn't coach Enjolras, no, but he works on his spins and has him stand straighter than ever for _hours_ and quotes Dante and the Iliad _just like this_ (his minor is Classics and Enjolras doesn't know if he loves or hates it). After initial trouble, they begin to get along well, with Enjolras bringing Grantaire coffee to the studio when he knows the other wouldn't have time to go and buy it himself and them chit-chatting about anything and everything in-between sets and routines. It's different from what he and his roommates have, but Enjolras doesn't mind.

 

_(He also wouldn't mind if Grantaire never wore a shirt again after that one time he walked in on him changing before their practice time, or maybe pushed him against the wall and kissed him senseless, but that's an entirely different issue.)  
_

 

When Courfeyrac fucks up a jump and almost lands himself a concussion at an evening practice, he’s scared shitless and rushes to his side immediately. His friend’s usually bright face looks awful and pale despite its warm brown shade and the wet cough he lets out makes Enjolras yell out ’JAMES, HELP’ quicker than ever.

 

Turns out, what looks like a little cold is actually a pretty shitty case of bronchitis and if it wasn’t for their skating, his insurance wouldn’t even cover it. _Oh, how he loves America._ It’s not the first time Enjolras spends a few hours in the waiting room, worried about someone he cares about, but apparently, it’s Combeferre’s. They try to talk about something to keep their minds off Courfeyrac, and for some time, it does.

 

It breaks his heart to hear Valjean tell his friend that he won’t be able to perform at the Olympics. The next day they visit, Courfeyrac’s eyes are red-rimmed and his voice is even worse than it was.

 

“Remember to wear a scarf or something when it’s cold outside, okay?”, he says with a weak smile and that’s how he learns that there is no such thing as justice, because they should be binging on Chinese food and _Parks and Recreation_.

 

Three months before the Olympics, the pressure tightening his throat and stomach, he's tenser than ever. Grantaire notices, because he always does, and withdraws from any arguments during practice. It's irritating, the silence doesn't suit them. Enjolras _hates_ being treated like glass. As far as he's concerned, it always leads to an even bigger argument, and this time it does, too. There are bitter words, there are fear and pride mashed together, and there's a slammed door and Enjolras regrets everything he said when he runs one lap after another at two in the morning, still angry and still bitter. He considers calling Grantaire, but in the end, it wouldn't have done them any better.

 

They don't talk for two months and accidentally run into each other in the hallway one day.

 

“It's becoming a tradition, isn't it?", Grantaire smiles and _God, has Enjolras missed that_.

 

He smiles back and insists they go out for coffee. A coffee turns into a night out and a night out leads to making out in the club's bathroom (gross, but Enjolras doesn't care because he's waited for this long enough) and mindblowing sex, luckily at Grantaire's apartment (which is way different from what Enjolras has expected, small but cozy; however, it could as well have been a cave full of bats because Grantaire's shirt is already off and _holy fucking shit_ ).

 

There's a little voice at the back of his head telling him it's gonna be the most awkward moment in the world when they wake up right as he's about to fall asleep, but, much to his surprise, Grantaire is already up and about, making breakfast and insisting he stretches properly because _I don't give a shit about your hangover_ _,_ _you've literally got twenty days 'till the fucking Olympics._ Enjolras smiles and obeys because there's coffee waiting for him in the kitchen and perhaps another round later since they're awake anyway?

 

"You think this is gonna be an, uh, permanent thing?", Grantaire asks that afternoon when he's walking Enjolras back to his, Courfeyrac and Combeferre's apartment, holding his hand hesitantly.

 

"I wouldn't mind that at all," he replies before kissing him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2010 olympics (vancouver) coming up in the next chapter! let me tell you, the amount of research that has already gone into this is astounding.
> 
> by the way, [the weather in detroit in january 2010 really was shitty.](https://78.media.tumblr.com/2ab50d30d6dcc72713f55c7060733ff9/tumblr_inline_p0qlbeQXaB1twn77o_540.png)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello lovelies! happy holidays, if you celebrate anything in december, and if you dont, then i hope your 2017 is coming to a peaceful end. this is the longest update yet, and itd mean the world to me if you took your time and said if you liked it! it is also longer because i probably will not be uploading until late january. 
> 
> but!! there might be a short story coming before my winter break, lets say around january 10th, so let me know if youd rather this was a separate work or another _in-chapter chapter_ if you know what i mean. thanks in advance and hope you enjoy chapter 4!:)

It is a permanent thing, because two days before Enjolras' departure to Sochi, they go on an actutal date, with a candlelit dinner and handholding under the table. It's certainly a nice distraction from all the stress, and so are the motivational texts he reads just as the plane's about to take off.

 

He’s afraid, God, he’s terrified. Just the thought of his mother watching him, coldly calculating every spin, every step with that expression he knows all too well, a mixture of disappointment and surprise, is enough to make his legs tremble. He needs to stop thinking, right now.

 

The short program isn't that bad. Just as he's anticipated, his triple axel, double toe loop combination doesn't work out as well as he's anticipated, but he makes up for it in the second part with a double Salchow and a high PCS. It might be enough to scrape by the podium if he keeps that quality up. When the music comes to an end, he almost collapses on spot. This is why he's worked so hard, why he's spent hours upon hours on the rink, just him and the sound of blades cutting through the ice, why he left France. He knows his parents are watching him, his mother's eyes not leaving him for a second, his father counting the score already, crossing his fingers, hoping it'd be enough. He knows _Grantaire_ 's watching him, probably with a bottle of wine but still watching him, smiling to himself, knowing he's the one who taught Enjolras to straighten his back more and extend his leg _all the way, I can see you slacking, princess_. Combeferre smiles at him from the audience (he's already done with his performance and Enjolras is positive he'll come back with gold) and he smiles back. He's where he's supposed to be, making his dreams come true.

 

(When he sits at the kiss and cry, Valjean rubs his shoulder in an attempt to calm him down, but he's bouncing his leg and fidgeting with his Team France jacket's zipper anyway. The scores are announced and _he's fourth, he's beat his PB and he's fourth._ He might've teared up a bit, but luckily, the cameras don't catch that.)

 

text messages 12:33 pm

quasimodo: Are you up?

diogenes: no im sleeping

quasimodo: You're so funny.

diogenes: its literally 10 pm im not a child

diogenes: you looked beautiful

quasimodo: Yes

diogenes: i forgot how humble you are

diogenes: youre not lying but

quasimodo: They're all out partying, even Ferre I think

diogenes: lets be real i kinda wanna see him get smashed

quasimodo: I mean the free skate is tomorrow so I don't think he'll do anything dumb

diogenes: oh yeah right

diogenes: how are u feeling right now

quasimodo: Not bad. The nerves are killing me but I did come in fourth

diogenes: youre gonna smash it

quasimodo: I feel so bad for the French pair.

diogenes: hey it wasnt that bad!

quasimodo: They looked so wrong together like honestly

diogenes: sure it wasnt romeo and juliet but give them some credit

quasimodo: I'll be back somebody's crying

diogenes: oh my god

diogenes: is this how you olympians party

 

2:06 am

quasimodo: What a mess oh my

quasimodo: Call me

diogenes: give me a sec

 

“You can't keep me waiting like this, babe, who was crying?", Grantaire says the moment Enjolras picks up the phone. The blond laughs, puts the phone on speaker and continues stretching.

 

“So the French pair looked kinda off today, right? And I hear someone crying, so I get out and it's the girl, her name's Éponine I think, and she's sobbing, like straight up sobbing, with a bottle of tequila in each hand."

 

“Jesus Christ, that's...intense." Enjolras can practically see the other man trying not to laugh about it.

 

“So I ask her 'what's wrong, why are you crying', and I asked in English, 'cause I'm tired and didn't think of speaking French, and she says, in that, you know, crying tone, in French, that the guy from her pair got drunk and is making out with our soloist right now, at the party. And she obviously didn't say that out loud, but I think she's got a crush on him or something. Anyway, she keeps crying, so I say we should drink something, and she gives me one bottle. Before you ask, yeah I’m twenty, but it turns out the drinking age here is eighteen, so it's chill. She's twenty-four, by the way. So, yeah, almost the entire village is partying, and we're out there, sitting on the stairs, drinking, talking about the skaters and everything, and she asks me if I'm single. She must've been smashed by then, and I say, ’I’m sorry, I’ve got a boyfriend’, and she says that it’s fine, gives me her number and tells me it’s okay to be gay and that men suck and if I ever need somebody to talk to, she’ll be there. Oh, and she said my hair looks very pretty, so I told her about my shampoo and everything.

 

“So long story short, I’m kinda drunk, lying in bed, and Éponine Thenardiér gave me her phone number.”

 

Grantaire sits silently for a second, probably very confused, and Enjolras would’ve been confused, too, if the alcohol wasn’t getting to him already. He doesn’t exactly have the heaviest head and he doesn’t party regularly, either. Éponine looked pretty miserable, though, and he didn’t want her to feel bad just because her partner decided to be an asshole. He needed to ask Combeferre about that guy, maybe he knew him from the last Olympics because his memory from every Final he’s been to is basically him, Ferre and Courf, nothing more.

 

“Think you could help me prepare for the next games? I know you’ve already done so much, but I mean, like, let’s do the entire thing together. The routine, the music, the costume, everything.”

 

He might be a little intoxicated, but he means it. His current routines are great, of course, but there would be something deeper about them if he was the one who put his heart into the entirety of it. That’s what Combeferre taught him, to put himself out there, on the ice, lay bare for others to see, not hold back anymore. Enjolras can see it in his programs, the raw emotion in his every move, so different from his usual, collected demeanour. That’s why he’s such a great skater, that’s why he deserves to win gold.

 

“They’re in four years, though, that’s one hell of a long time,” Grantaire replies. There’s uncertainty in his tone. ”We graduate in a year, who knows what will happen next.”

 

“No one does, but wouldn’t it be nice to keep things as they are?”

 

Their relationship is support and care, it’s a bottle of water after a rough night and with a hangover incoming, it’s knowing when to stop while arguing so as not to push too far, it’s two more sets and twice as many reps when there’s fuel - and _anger_ \- to be burnt off. Why would Enjolras _not_ want him? Why would he forget him the moment they graduate?

 

“You’re on then. My only condition is, you have to win.”

 

Enjolras smiles. “Perfect.”

 

The free skate is surely better than the short program, but he knows he won’t win with that. Maybe bronze, if he’s lucky and somebody with a higher score from the day before fucks it up. He holds his hands up during his quads, though, and every single point is important.

 

Another skater comes in, skates and comes out. He’s still fourth. Two more to go. Enjolras crosses his fingers.

 

Another skater comes in. He skates, and he fucks up his triple Lutz. Then he falls again. There’s a smile, now, and by the time the routine comes to an end, Enjolras knows he’s made it, he’ll stand there, on the podium, and the whole of France will be watching him receive the bronze medal he’s fought tooth and nail for.

 

(Combeferre’s routine is how gold is won. It’s powerful and strong and flawless.)

 

(Enjolras doesn’t know, there’s no way he’d know, but Courfeyrac’s watching it back in Detroit, on their shitty TV, and he doesn’t stop looking for a single second.)

 

He sees Éponine during the closing ceremony, and she smiles at him. He texts her when he’s back in the States, and somehow, they don’t lose contact until the next Games.

 

He's twenty years old when his best friends graduate and he doesn't notice Combeferre's longing stare and his friends' hug that lingers just a few seconds too long.

 

The next season is a mess, with graduation coming up, homework and practice being a bitch when all he wants to do is hang out with his boyfriend, a shit-ton of assignments and no sleep at all. Most of the time, he just feels alone. The little apartment suddenly feels empty, without his friends by his side.

 

(“We’ve thought about it for some time already,” Courfeyrac says one April afternoon, obviously nervous, tugging at his hair as he always does. ”There’s a great MA program, in International Politics and Economics, too, and…”

 

“What Courf is trying to say is that we’ve applied to it a few months ago and…we’ve been accepted. The thing is, it’s in England. And it starts in September,” Combeferre supplies. He’s always been the more collected one of the two of them. There’s a hint of guilt in his tone, and Enjolras sensed it in Courfeyrac’s before, too. 

 

“You mean, this September? In England?”)

 

It’s not like Enjolras expected the three of them to stay like this forever, obviously not, but it feels surreal to imagine living without them after three years. They were the first ones who welcomed him in America, taught him the little phrases those weird fraternities used (he never bothered joining one, half afraid and half unbothered), helped him at the rink, and he told them about France, made them watch classic movies they’d somehow never heard of, helped them choose music for their routines, he even helped Courfeyrac with his assignments sometimes, even though it was usually the other way around. To suddenly come back from classes to an empty living room, no dumb soap operas on the TV and no nice food in the kitchen would be sad to say at least. But he doesn’t say that, he doesn’t say any of it, and he just agrees, because it’s not his choice to make. Who is he to deny them such an opportunity?

 

(They decide to leave earlier, to visit Combeferre’s family in the London suburbs, and Courfeyrac is excited like a puppy. Enjolras smiles and nods along to his babbling about them going sightseeing in the city and ’going to Oxford and maybe taking the train to Dover if we have time, wouldn’t that be great, ’Ferre?’.)  
By the time August rolls around, he sits alone in their apartment, with the French Nationals coming up soon and practice almost every day. Grantaire comes around more often since he’s got the whole thing for himself and doesn’t have to awkwardly suggest his friends go out for a night, and that part of living on his own is pretty nice, he must admit.

 

In September, he makes it through the Nationals after paying a very awkward visit to his parents. It’s absolutely horrible, full of ’do you have a girlfriend in America?’ and ’what are your plans for after graduation?’ and he doesn’t like lying all that much, so he just doesn’t say anything. Grantaire texts him three times a day, though, and that’s nice. Éponine, her partner and the second girl, _Cosette_ , Enjolras learns, are at the Nationals, too, and they all qualify for the upcoming season. He and Éponine have a wonderful time in Orléans after the competition. He’s never been so drunk before.

 

At the Grand Prix Final in Beijing, Courfeyrac’s the one who wins gold. Combeferre manages to get bronze, and Enjolras, with only a few points less than him, watches the ceremony from the audience, just like the year before. It fills him with spite and determination and he can’t say which one fuels him more.

 

He spends Christmas with Grantaire that year, for the first time in three years without his best friends’ company. He and Combeferre meet at the Euros, and Enjolras wins gold that time, and Courfeyrac joins in for the Four Continents. The evening before the free skate, they wander around Taiwan, catching up on their lives. During the off-season, he concentrates on schoolwork, wishing he hadn’t given so little fucks about studying (he could’ve at least taken his notes to the Final!), and prepares for finals. It feels so surreal to realise it’s been four years since he came to America, full of hopes and dreams.

 

“What are you gonna do when you’re done with school?”, Grantaire asks when they’re watching some boring rom-com, having long ago stopped pretending they’re even trying to revise.

 

“I’ve been thinking about doing an MA. I mean, when I’m done skating, I’ve gotta have something to lean back on,” he replies, petting his hair absentmindedly.

 

“Poli Sci?”  


“My advisor says I should consider Global Affairs. To ’widen my job prospects’. What the fuck does this even mean?”, he laughs because it does sound pretty ridiculous.

 

“That’s pretty grim, you’re only twenty. You still have at least four, five seasons.”

 

“Well, yeah, but I’ll still have at least thirty years after I retire, and I’d rather have something to do instead of, I don’t know, Walmart. What about you?”

 

“There’s a ballet company in NYC that might be interested in having me when I graduate,” Grantaire replies quietly, and that’s when it hits Enjolras that in a year from now, everything is gonna be very, very different.

 

“Oh,” he manages to say because Grantaire has simply always been there and he hasn’t considered being away from him.

 

“I’m still mulling it over, I mean, I could stay here and just become a full-time instructor at the studio.”

 

It might be what’s best for Enjolras, but not for him and Enjolras _knows._ He makes the right choice again, and when they part at the airport, he’s reminded of how he watched his best friends fly off to England.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> id say this, or the next chapter, is where the story gets thicker. get ready for more issues babes!!!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> some growing up, some changes, a whole lot of emotions. everything moves so fast, or maybe _you_ are the one thing that isn't moving at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yee haw i am Back with a vengeance. it took a considerable amout of time but i haven't quite given up on this bad boy. enjoy ur stay. finals are killing me thus here is a chapter for you guys!!! i hope we are still friends after this hiatus

Ultimately, he decides to stay in Detroit after graduation for two more years, having chosen a MA in Global Affairs, simply because it was the right thing to do. Part of him wishes he would just go to New York with Grantaire, but he doesn’t. They haven’t broken up, though, and Grantaire promises he’ll visit ’hopefully on Christmas, but we’ll see about that’. They Skype regularly, even though Enjolras is almost always busy with studying or practice. The competition gets tougher this year, with a whole set of fresh-out-of-the-junior-league kids ready to prove themselves. He’s always tired, and there’s always something to repeat over and over at practice.

 

He arrives in Canada a few days before the Final. Much to his surprise, Grantaire is there. He’s flown to Quebec without telling him and waits for him at the airport. Valjean’s known, that smug bastard, because he only tells him their cab to the hotel leaves in twenty minutes and steps aside. There’s a possibility he might’ve teared up, but hey, he’s twenty two, he’s allowed to do dumb shit, especially when he hasn’t seen his boyfriend in six months.

 

“Why didn’t you tell me you’d come?”, he asks, when they’ve cuddled enough (for now).

 

“Consider this an early anniversary gift,” Grantaire smiles and kisses his hair, and that’s enough.

 

He watches Enjolras skate, and they spend the evenings together. Éponine takes them to a nice restaurant, and she and Grantaire hit it off immediately. It makes Enjolras happy to watch his boyfriend and friend get along so well, and they decide to meet like that again, _maybe at the next Games, what do ya think?,_ even though they’re only halfway through and the world’s only just starting to prepare for London. There’s something about Grantaire’s presence at the rink that boosts his skating during his performances, a slight change, an added bonus of courage when it comes to quads, and it’s enough to win silver despite the tough competition, with Combeferre in the first position and Courfeyrac in fourth, only a few points behind the kid in third, whose name he doesn’t even remember, but he doesn’t care. He can see his boyfriend’s face from the podium, and his smile is even wider than the victor’s. He doesn’t notice the tension between Combeferre and Courfeyrac, too caught up in his own affairs. He doesn’t notice how there’s now hesitance when it comes to hugs, doesn’t notice they speak more to him than to one another. Grantaire points it out, though, and it begins to puzzle him. He doesn’t ask, because _they’re not babies, maybe they’ve just had a misunderstanding or something, they’ll figure it out._

 

It’s weird to spend Christmas like this, he decides two hours into drinking on his own and watching _Home Alone._ He’s phoned his mother, talked with her about his plans for Four Continents and the Euros, wished her a merry Christmas despite her constant questions whether he’s still single. When Kevin’s about to trap the bad guys into the house, he turns the TV off and opens his computer. Every time’s a good time to get something done, except he’s starting to get really drunk and his paper on transnational issues turns into a rant about the world never being able to cooperate because of its deeply rooted power imbalances and ’fucking capitalism ruining any hope for unification’. He sleeps in for the next days, since he’s not planning on doing anything at all, unless Courfeyrac or Combeferre call. His classmate, or so he claims, e-mails him, though, and they end up going out for coffee and bonding over their annoying professor (to be entirely honest, most of them are very close-minded and he would complain about most of them any given time). The guy - Bahorel, if he remembers correctly, they have some classes together apparently - is really nice, he’s on year two of Law and hates his course so much it’s unbelievable. His boyfriend is very cool, too. Enjolras knows because the guy mentions him about nine times without even realizing it. He wonders if he and Grantaire do that, too.

 

For the second time in the five years he’s spent in America, he goes to a New Year’s party. The first time (his freshman year, he was such a dumb child) was a mess, and he only went because Courfeyrac asked him nicely. He was blackout drunk by eleven, missed the whole countdown and woke up at thirteen in that asshole from Government’s room. There aren’t many more things he regrets quite as much as those six months of awkward eye contact from across the dining hall and the lectures. This time, however, he’s with Bahorel and a group of his friends (none are white or straight, bless them), and he actually has fun. He remembers almost the whole thing and that’s a big plus, and he’s sober enough to call Grantaire around midnight or so he hopes, and they have a nice chat that’s half an actual conversations and half phone sex, except both of them are at separate parties. _Long-distance relationships, fuck yeah_ , Enjolras muses later that night. To watch all these children (they’re eighteen, they don’t know how life works, _they don’t pay taxes_ ) get smashed and do dumb shit, that’s what life is all about. He and Feuilly (that’s Bahorel’s boyfriend, his family is from France and they bond over the course the country has taken in its international relations) sit and sip on their whiskey (the rest might have beer and shitty vodka, but he’s an _athlete,_ he’s got _standards,_ he can’t ruin his liver with something that you can get for two bucks), commenting on the boldest ones’ moves or shitty lines for hours. That’s top class entertainment right there.

 

The next year brings him nothing but more work, more duties, more hours of trying to compromise sports and school, two total mental breakdowns in the span of three months (his new record) and constant counting down to whatever he’s got coming next, be it exams, assignments’ due dates, practice or Grantaire’s visit. This year, he actually manages a few more of them, even if they’re short. They walk around the city, even visit the Detroit zoo. He finishes his fifth year of uni and the only thing keeping him motivated is the prospect of only one more year left.

 

It takes him more time and energy than he’s originally intended to put into, but he manages to find a decent flight over the pond to make it to England for Courfeyrac and Combeferre’s graduation, surprising both of them. They seem so different off the rink, without any costumes or scene makeup at last. The stress shows on their faces, too, the two years of managing school and an active career (how Combeferre managed to place third and first, Enjolras has no idea), but other than that, they’re still the same. A few hours after the Final, Worlds and Euros were in no way enough to be completely up to date with each others’ lives, and so they spend almost the entirety of their first night together after two years talking, sharing jokes, coming clean on some pranks and jokes from their Detroit days (it’s painful, because Enjolras still has one more year to go, and he surely isn’t looking forward to it). There’s something else about Combeferre and Courfeyrac, too, though he can’t put a finger on it, try as he might. They sit closer to one another, shoulders touching, they finish each others’ sentences even more often.

 

They all fall asleep in Enjolras’ hotel room that night. He and Courfeyrac wake up hugging on the bed, and Combeferre on the couch they’ve put opposite it. _Just like the old times_ , he thinks but doesn’t say out loud. Looking back is sad sometimes.

 

During their week in England, they visit Combeferre’s parents (Enjolras has never eaten better curry, and probably never will), go sightseeing (Courfeyrac’s suggestion, which is pretty unbelieavable since he’s literally spent two years in the country) and just relax. Combeferre asks him about Grantaire, and he’s more than happy to talk about their relationship. The fond smile he gets in return for all the stories is a reminder of the hours he spent trying to figure his feelings out.

 

He spends two weeks of August at his parents’, and although it’s very awkward, he’s happy he’s staying in touch with them. The thing is, he’s not out, and as much as he wants them to meet Grantaire, it’s not a good idea. Most of the time he just wanders around Paris, visiting places he used to play in as a child. He visits cafés, too, because he’s sleep-deprived as always (it’s not fair there’s a six-hour difference from Paris to New York), and one in particular catches his eye. It’s not big or popular, but there’s something about the atmosphere of the place that makes him sit there for hours. He touches up his summer assignments, goes through countless playlists in hopes of finding a piece for the season, or just watches people. He and Grantaire used to do that, back when they were only getting to know each other. They’d sit in one place for as long as possible, looking at everybody, making up their stories, pointing out the little, seemingly unimportant details of their clothing or their body language. Talking about others was always easier than talking about yourself.

 

The owner talks to him one day, after most of the regulars have left and it’s only him and a few more people left. She’s twenty-five, her eyes are the most beautiful shade of brown he’s ever seen and her name’s Musichetta. They discuss philosophy (he took it for one semester, _for fun,_ it wasn’t fun at all), French cuisine, music and the importance of consent. She recommends him lots of music, some _fado,_ some Edith Piaf, some Depeche Mode, too. That’s how he finds the two pieces that sound just right, and that’s how he decides on the season’s theme. _Nostalgia_. Musichetta’s boyfriend (well, one of them), is a journalist, a journalist looking for some inspiration for an article, on top of that. Enjolras agrees to an interview (it’s been some time since he did that, two years probably), and they have lots of fun, joking around most of the time.  The night before his flight to New York, he meets up with Éponine, though she looks kinda off. She’s even more tired than usual, her hair, messily cut, is tied up in a little bun, and she goes through half a pack of cigarettes like it’s no big deal. He’s worried but he doesn’t say anything, it’s her life and she can manage it herself, or so he hopes. 

 

Four hours is an unbelieavably long time, he realizes on the plane. His face feels drier than a paper sheet from the air conditioning, his legs are dead and some kid won’t stop kicking his seat from behind, which is actually the only thing keeping him sane right now. He misses France already, in the way that makes him wanna board another plane, right back to Paris, buy a shitty apartment, find a mediocre job (he does have good qualifications, so it should work, even if the economy is still shitty), spend his afternoons playing with a cat (his parents never allowed him to have one) and reading books. He’s tired, tired of always speaking English, tired of the tension between him and his parents, tired of the distance between him and Grantaire, tired of the stress, the fear of getting injured and quitting his career mid-season, or, God forbid, in the off-season, tired of always having to succeed, tired because his childhood was taken away for that horrible, horrible ambition of his mother’s. Of course, it’s given him everything he had, friends, money, fame, _Grantaire,_ but it doesn’t change the fact he’s burning out.

 

 _He’s burning out_ , it suddenly hits him. The realisation is like jumping into a cold swimming pool or accidentally finding something you shouldn’t have as a kid. His chest tightens, and his hearts begins to beat twice as fast. The lights are mostly off in the airplane, and the semi-darkness doesn’t help at all. Fear paralyzes him, the thousands of possibilities of failure are the only thing in his mind.

 

 _Just a panic attack, James used to have these, back in Detroit, when everything was just too much for him,_ he remembers. No one cares, no one looks at him. He doesn’t know if it’s good or bad. For once, when he’d like somebody to notice, there’s silence and there’s nothing. So he just sucks in a breath, fidgets with his fingers and waits until it passes, because what else could he possibly do? He needs to talk about this with Courfeyrac, though, he’s sure they will meet at one of the elimination events. Maybe he has something more to say about it than the ’something is probably wrong with me’ that echoes in his head.

 

Grantaire waits for him at the airport, and Enjolras feels like he might stay in his arms forever. He’s jet-lagged, sore from the plane seat, his mind still all over the place, and all he wants is to be held like that for a few hours.

 

“What’s wrong?”, Grantaire asks straightaway. His worried expression says it all, anyway. _Something’s wrong and I can see_ , maybe _you’ve been distant and I’m confused_ , _I wanna help but I have no idea how_ for sure. Enjolras shrugs and presses himself deeper into the other’s embrace, muttering a quiet ’I’m fine’ neither really believes.

 

These few days in NYC are what he seemed to need, waking up next to his boyfriend every morning, going grocery shopping and making out in the bread aisle, watching Grantaire practice, calling Combeferre and Courfeyrac in the afternoon and even a little bit of sightseeing there and there. He breathes the air in and takes more photos than ever and every single moment makes his chest ache, because he already knows he will miss all of this, the warmth, the peace, the happiness.

 

He’s unhappy, lying right by the person he loves. _Why?_ The silence doesn’t answer; it never does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i honestly truthfully dont know when ill update, but i will.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it's getting harder, isn't it? you just push and push and push everyone away and only then do you ask _why am i alone_ and the answer doesn't come because there's no one here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> howdy pardners! summer is here, it's the anniversary of me posting my first les mis fic and it's time to frickin party. this chapter is the end of the first half. the year is 2013, which means there are five more years in this story.

He enters the new season (the schoolyear, too, the final one, _God bless, he’s way too tired for this_ ) with a distinct lack of motivation. The loneliness is back, and so are the cold and the rain. Surprisingly, he and Musichetta keep emailing each other throughout the next few months. He keeps her updated on his skating, and she keeps him updated on the little things that take place in her café. He and Courfeyrac meet at Skate Canada, and Combeferre joins in during the Cup of China. Enjolras takes gold twice, but it barely feels like anything.

 

Russia is a very cold country, he notes right as he’s stepping out of the plane. Sochi looks peaceful, covered with a soft blanket of snow, and the lights seem almost warm. Fourteen months, Enjolras knows, and he will be back, for the games that time. _Or so he hopes._ So much has changed already, yet there is so much more to come. Time terrifies him.

 

He skates through the short program with a certain numbness, the kind of perfection that could only be achieved by removing yourself from reality, the only touchable thing being what you need to do to win. Point after point, he calculates during his performance. The music that struck his heart those months ago in Paris, that made him _feel,_ doesn’t really mean anything anymore, it’s just a way to win. Courfeyrac looks like he’s worried. There’s nothing when he’s announced to have come in first, he just nods, turns from the cameras and leaves.

 

After almost four months of silence, Éponine calls him at one in the morning (it’s barely eleven in Paris), and he’s so relieved he feels like crying. It’s stiff and awkward for the first few minutes, as it always is when you’re just trying to pick up pieces of something you’ve carelessly thrown out.

She eventually tells him everything, how Marius hurt his arm and had to pull back from skating, how Cosette convinced her to stay and go solo instead of wallowing in pity, how they spent more and more time together, how she realized she’d fallen in love with her, how she started drinking more and smoking more and talking less. How she failed to qualify at the Nationals, how everyone called Cosette _France’s sweetheart_ , how jealous and petty and rude she was, how she almost killed herself one October afternoon (the twentieth, not a full week before the anniversary of her little brother’s death. Enjolras remembers he was out drinking with Feuilly that day, enjoying himself, and it makes him sick to the stomach). He’s started crying by that point.

 

“So, yeah, now I’ve got therapy and everything,” she says like it’s nothing unusual, like it’s just something obvious. “I’m better than ever, really. It’s getting better everyday, so they say.”

 

“That’s…good.” He can’t manage anything better because _honestly, what could he possibly say_? All he can do is wipe his eyes and tell her he’s happy for her.

 

“What about you? I’ve seen the SP, don’t you dare bullshit me.” She’s always been blunt, but she’s right.

 

“I don’t even know, I just…there’s nothing, you know? I should be so happy, I should have been happy all those times, but I try and I can’t.” There’s something raw about saying it in his mother tongue, the words seem clearer that way.

 

“Get some help, then.”

 

Just like this. He doesn’t.

 

On the next day he wins gold. He accepts it calmly, with a collected expression. Combeferre gets silver, and his hand feels too warm on Enjolras’ cold, exposed shoulder. He wishes he could feel anything, smile just a little bit, but he’s numb all over.

 

The window in his hotel room is left open that night, and the December air makes him feel alive, if only for a single, cold inhale. There’s snow in his hair, and there are no stars. Sleep doesn’t seem to be an option. There are eight hours between New York and Sochi. Grantaire calls him anyway.

 

He misses New Year’s by a few hours, too caught up in an essay. Valentine’s Day passes by without notice, too. Days blur into weeks. All he seems to do is work, these days. There’s always something to be done, and he’s more than happy to oblige.

 

He withdraws from Four Continents and the Worlds, he’s too tired for this. For everything. One by one, he stops answering calls from Combeferre, Coufeyrac, and his parents. Progressively, they stop coming.

 

There’s a blank space in his mind whenever he thinks about that March and April, the only things he can come up with are school and work (he’s a French tutor on Mondays, Thursdays and Saturdays and teaches a small group of kids at the rink every other day). Grantaire drops by for a little visit around Easter, and they get down to business for a while, figuring the apartment they’re going to be living in come July, the exact plane numbers for Enjolras’ flight, how they will split up the rent and everything else that comes with living together. The rest of the time, they just fool around, reliving old memories from the five years of their relationship. Enjolras feels better with him, when they’re planning for the future or when the light catches in those beautiful, grey eyes, always warm and kind.

 

He breaks down on the phone with Éponine on May fifth at exactly three twenty two in the morning. Everything feels like too much, he’s got two weeks until finals, Grantaire hasn’t even called in ten days (shows, rehearsals, excuses, _always excuses_ ), everyone is always so loud and annoying and he wants to die so he doesn’t have to deal with anything anymore. Once the tears start, he can’t stop them, his shoulders won’t stop shaking and he has to lean against the wall so he doesn’t fall over. It’s pathetic, he’s pathetic, but there’s nothing he can do. Éponine doesn’t say anything, only waits patiently until he’s calmed down.

 

”Don’t stop, just let it all out, Jules,” she says over the phone, and it feels like she’s both an ocean away and right next to him. She’s the only one who calls him that. There’s something warm about it, like she’s the older sister he never had and he the younger brother she could have had. Bittersweet as it is, they accept what they have because it’s the only way. Eventually, he can breathe again. This time, it’s his turn to tell her everything. The pressure, the stress, the fear, the numbness. With every single word, he tries to let go, to set himself free from all of this, but when his mind is finally empty, so is his chest.

 

Nothing, nothing, nothing. He can’t feel anything. Just like Sochi. If he could, he’d be terrified.

 

Graduation comes, and he doesn’t even smile for the photos. Six years of hard work, pain and tears, and he can’t manage a single smile. Grantaire smiles bright enough for the both of them, though, and so do Combeferre and Courfeyrac (he can swear all three of them teared up a bit). They spend that evening together, the last one he gets to spend in Detroit. They don’t mention Enjolras going off the radar for so long. The warm air feels heavy with nostalgia, drowning them in memories both welcome and not, in times long gone, never to come again. A path closes right in front of him and he’s forced to take a step forward, into the uncertainity of the future.

 

“Finally, just you and me, in New York, living the dream. Aren’t you happy?”, Grantaire asks him just as he’s begun to fall asleep, pressing his warm body against Enjolras’.

 

“Of course I am, dear. I’m just…tired.”

 

 _You’ve been tired for so long now, I don’t remember how it was before that_ lingers in the bedroom, never to be said. The silence is suffocating.

 

What does he do when his dreams are coming true right in front of him and he can’t even bring himself to enjoy it? He should be happy, and somewhere deep inside maybe he is, but whenever he tries to actually let it show, there’s nothing. Those hot July weeks in New York feel like an eternity, the mornings of coffee, plans for the oncoming hours and gentle kisses, the afternoons of lunches, interviews (he’s been a professional skater for six years and he still hasn’t figured out just the right angle for all these photos), the evenings of shitty movies, slow dancing, some more coffee, sometimes even sex (it’s been five years, they’re obviously not so over each other like they used to be). He tries to live every hour, every kiss, but it’s just too hard for him, like he’s not even a real person anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let me know what you guys thought. i'm in the middle of changing my style. it's been almost a full year since i started writing is so i'd BETTER get better (ugh bad wording be like)
> 
>  
> 
> there will be updates. just. no details. there will be SOME i GUESS


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i did promise a chapter by the end of the year. it was a good one. year, i mean. the chapter... enjoy

Somewhere around August, everything begins to crumble. They’ve been together for almost five years now, but living together is different, not something they were used to, which shows hard. Especially after those two years of being long-distance. With Grantaire barely managing work and Enjolras taking most of the time to practice and everything else in-between, there is almost no time just for the two of them and when there is, there’s always something to be mad about, a chore that neither completed and can’t wait to point out. It’s terrible, really, in the way they can’t get it right, always arguing, as if living together not living up to their expectations was the other’s fault. 

 

_ It’s not a breakup, _ he tells himself as he’s packing his things as quickly as possible, still angry, still disappointed.  _ It’s not a breakup _ , he tells himself as he walks through New York on his own, finally calming down after the final argument at three in the morning. He doesn’t even go over it in his head, knows it’s pointless, doesn’t consider coming back and trying to fix things.

 

He doesn’t care. It’s terrifying. He’s just lost the most important person in his life and there’s absolutely nothing he plans on doing to get Grantaire back.

 

At four, he calls Montparnasse, who he ran into a few weeks earlier at the grocery store or something like that. They hadn’t exactly hit it off immediately. After a few days they met at a bar, which ended in an actual fight, with fists and kicking and everything.  _ What the fuck is this, Fight Club? _ , he remembers thinking. Things escalated from that and, after giving him a black eye, Enjolras got his number and they mutually agreed on being acquaintances. It seems like they needed to let some things out before full commitment, but in the end they were both fine with it. They went out for drinks a few more times, usually bickering about stuff and betting each other and it was good times. Grantaire said the guy felt kinda off, so naturally, as a defense mechanism in case of a bad breakup (okay, it’s a breakup,  _ he said it _ ), he goes straight to him. He’s the first person Enjolras thought of, anyway, which means fate had a plan.

 

“What the  _ fuck _ ,” Montparnasse says after literally picking up within the first two rings. “Why are you even awake at this ungodly hour?”  _ What a goddamn hypocrite _ . That explains why they got along so well.

 

“You want the short version or the long version?”

 

“It’s four in the morning, cut the bullshit.”

 

“I broke up with my boyfriend, uh… seven hours ago, maybe, and I need a place to stay.”

 

“I’ll send you my location, the code is 1832, don’t ask me why.” With those words, Montparnasse hangs up on him, to go right back to sleep or so Enjolras hopes.

 

Roughly forty minutes of figuring public transportation out later, he’s at the door, knocking at it impatiently. He didn’t tumble through the traffic just to have Montparnasse ignore him and sleep like a normal person would at almost seven in the morning. 

 

“First of all, I hate you. Second of all, wow, you really look like shit. Take a shower or something and go to sleep, okay?”

 

Montparnasse opens the door with his usual  _ I don’t give a fuck _ face, but perhaps if Enjolras looked a tad closer, he would’ve noticed the tiniest bit of concern somewhere in that stare. Or maybe it was the all-nighter he accidentally pulled that was just fucking with him, he doesn’t know anymore. What he does know, though, is that his,  _ uh, are they friends? yeah, they totally are _ , his  _ friend’ _ s shower is ridiculously comfortable and he doesn’t burn himself trying to adjust the water temperature, which is surprising, considering it’s America. After showering, he even finds a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt on the couch and even if he teared up, he’s allowed to do it, he’s had a rough time, okay? Emotions are complicated, he’s not obligated to understand every one. Or any. Okay, he’s very tired. He falls asleep on said couch in under fifteen minutes and sleeps for ten hours, which is both impressive and a big nod to his college days. His phone’s battery is drained completely and he doesn’t even think about plugging it in, overwhelmed with the amount of things he could theoretically do since he’s single, kinda homeless and everything.

 

It’s not like he didn’t wake up alone in those few months, he and Grantaire did have conflicting schedules, but this time it’s for real, and the thoughts almost bring tears to his eyes. He really did that, he really fucked it up.

 

“Rise and shine, it’s dinner time,” Montparnasse says from the kitchen, obviously looking like he, too, just woke up.

 

“What time is it?”

 

“I don’t know, five? I’m ordering Thai food, what do you want?”, Montparnasse taps his fingers against the countertop. 

 

“Anything, haven’t eaten for long enough not to give a shit.”

 

In the end, they order way too much food to eat for one meal, but that’s okay, they’re gonna love the leftovers in the evening. After letting go of that initial awkwardness, they have a lot of fun that afternoon, watching shitty cooking shows and discussing anything they could possibly think of, just to know each other better,  _ since you’re probably gonna stay here for a while _ , Montparnasse suggests. It’s not that far from the truth, Enjolras can already see, and it’s a nice feeling.

 

It’s easy to get lost in the kind of routine they fall into, breakfast - gym - shopping - dinner - TV, and once a few days past, Enjolras is already looking forward to hearing Montparnasse’s stories from thoughout the day as they sit in the living room.

 

“You know I don’t know jack shit about ice skating,” Montparnasse begins, “but I’ve been meaning to ask you this for some time now. You’ve got anything yet? Like, a dance or whatever? Ain’t that what you do?”

 

It’s pretty endearing that he actually took the time to research a little bit, even if he acts like he absolutely didn’t, and Enjolras can’t help but smile. “Not yet. Don’t know if I’m even gonna do it this year.”

 

That must’ve taken him aback. “Isn’t that, you know,  _ career-threatening _ ?”

 

All Enjolras does is shrug. “I mean, yeah? Kinda. But I’ve been doing this for what, six years now? I’m tired. I need a break. Maybe this will bring the whole thing back.”

 

“And what do you mean by that?”

 

“Can’t phrase it. Like nothing feels real. Like I’m not me. Been like this for a while now. My friend said-”

 

Suddenly he’s at loss for words. How long has it been since he last talked to Éponine? Days? Weeks? Surely not months,  _ or _ ? Time has been slipping away from him. “She said I should get help, or whatever. Don’t want to bother you with all this.”

 

He can’t quite name it, the feeling that  _ he really said it out loud  _ as it hits him. Some shame, guilt, fear, he’s lost and looks away, suddenly unwilling to look Montparnasse in the eyes.

 

“That’s fucked up. I’m not a psychologist, but that’s fucked up.”

 

“Thanks.”

 

They don’t talk about it again.

 

They talk about different things, though, like the food they used to eat at home, the pets Enjolras wanted to have and Montparnasse had or the movies they absolutely despised. Surprisingly, his new roommate is way more accepting of Enjolras staying out of the apartment when he’s in a training frenzy. Grantaire always complained that they barely had time for each other. It’s not like he’s moving on (he’s definitely  _ not _ moving on), but it’s a nice change.

 

He and Combeferre used to do a lot of things together, but there was one thing that was the most special for them. They’d wake up early, preferably at the asscrack of dawn (which James hated, but morning-bird Enjolras had no problems with), run three or four miles, go out for the strongest coffee within a two-mile radius from the campus. They’d shower at the rink to save time and then, after around forty minutes of stretching, it was  _ on _ . They literally barricaded themselves at the rink, only leaving when they were falling asleep on the ice. They’d order some disgusting but healthy dinner, thus earning themselves a short break, but outside of that, they practiced all day long. Almost non-stop. Now that Enjolras is in NYC, all by himself, he’s got nobody to do that with, but spite seems enough for some kind of motivation. He almost texts Combeferre as he’s leaving the apartment (he never takes his phone with him when he’s running), but ultimately decides to do it when he’s back, completely aware that he won’t have the energy to do anything when he’s back. He misses it all, though. Misses the company of something else than just his thoughts.

 

Maybe that’s what pushes him to kiss Montparnasse when he’s back from the run, sweaty and all. The thrill of something new and different thrums at the edge of his fingertips that barely graze Montparnasse’s cheeks. It’s so unexpected, even for Enjolras himself, that the other doesn’t pull away at all, that he leans even further into the kiss. And yet he doesn’t want it to stop. He can’t tell how long they stood there, Montparnasse against the wall and Enjolras kissing him like he’s finally waking up from some sort of daze he’s been in for the last few years. It feels like a whole new world has just opened for him, a world full of possibility. It’s not yet the solution to the ache in his chest, but enough to forget it for the moment.

 

“Take a fucking shower,” Montparnasse says when they part for longer than just a breath. His hair is even messier than usual, but that might have more to do with Enjolras’ hands than anything else. 

 

As if to make up for all the time he feels he’s suddenly lost, Enjolras drifts further and further away from skating, literally drowning himself in alcohol harder than he ever has in his university days, partying like he’s got another liver stashed somewhere, adrenaline fuelling him on days-long binges. There’s a different thrill to it than what landing a perfect Salchow gives him, but Enjolras will take anything that’s imperfect, rough around the edges or straight-up wrong. Sure, part of it might just be getting back at Grantaire, proving that he can  _ live  _ without someone to whom he’s devoted almost five years of his life, but it might be something he’s been chasing. Or at least it feels different enough that he doesn’t think anymore. Montparnasse and his friends and nights full of anything but sleep manage to keep Enjolras’ mind so occupied that not even the thought of the upcoming season doesn’t cross his mind. Time and time again, with every meaningless hookup and throat-burning drink, he numbs himself to the point of not thinking at all, and the blissful static in his mind is unlike anything he’s felt before. 

 

Now he understands why Eponine smoked; there’s some kind of craving for it in him, too, but even to this hedonism he’s got limits. It would mean going too far, burning the last bridge of restraint he’s got left. Enjolras knows that behind everything he’s not thinking about lies the ugly truth: he can’t cope anymore, the world around him is changing but he can’t. 

  
That year he actually withdraws from the Grand Prix series for the first time since he entered the senior division. Summer ends and with it, eventually, begrudgingly, the party-fuelled spiral he fell into with Montparnasse. Enjolras moves out, considers leaving the States altogether but the trip to Paris taught him that changing the location doesn’t change his feelings. Try as he might, he’s stuck with  _ whatever this is.  _ Despite everything he doesn’t call Grantaire. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm kind of moving on from this but i won't leave you without answers if there's at least one person who would want to know more than this. let me know if you would care enough to know how this end. if you hated it and think it shouldn't go on. apathy kills and the fate of this fic is in your hands

**Author's Note:**

> **comments and kudos are what keeps writers motivated**


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